


Once in a Century

by The Tepid Teapot (Tallywack)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3610674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallywack/pseuds/The%20Tepid%20Teapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley comes down with an unknown illness and Aziraphale, despite an extreme distaste for dealing with the sick, does his best to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once in a Century

The first half hour he had been able to explain away. Perhaps he was just stuck in traffic (though something as mundane as traffic would hardly stop Crowley). However, after a full hour of sitting by himself at the Ritz Aziraphale was rather put out. The demon could have at least called to say he wasn’t going to make it. With a put upon sigh he pushed away from the table and made his way out.

He decided to ring Crowley as he worked on hailing a cab; he felt he was at least owed an explanation if nothing more. Perhaps an apology but that might be pushing it a bit. As he slid into the back of the cab he was greeted by the sound of Crowley’s answering machine. He hurriedly rattled off his address to the cabbie before the machine prompted him to leave a message.

“Hello my dear, just wondering what on earth could have made you forget about our lunch date. You were quite adamant about it the other day, but I was sat there for an hour waiting before I gave up. Please do get back to me.” He had tried not to sound too put off about it all, but as soon as he’d hung up he knew that he’d failed in that.

The cab pulled up and Aziraphale paid the driver before shuffling into his shabby but well-loved shop. Well, if Crowley wasn’t going to be good company then he could very well occupy himself, thank you very much. With a minimal amount of fussing about he was soon ensconced in his favorite chair with a cup of hot chocolate and a well-worn copy of The War of the Worlds.

Ten minutes later he was fidgeting about and unable to take in anything he read. Perhaps he should call Crowley again. It wasn’t like him to ignore calls. He tried the demon’s mobile this time, Crowley made a point of always answering his mobile and Aziraphale doubted that the devil himself could stop him.

When the call rang out he began to worry a touch. This wasn’t like Crowley, not one bit. He had been late to lunch and feeding the ducks before, but he had yet to skip out entirely, and the missed calls were not reassuring. What if he’d been called back downstairs? The more Aziraphale thought about the possibilities the more agitated he got until he simply couldn’t sit still any longer. With a purposeful stride he left the shop again to go pay Cowley a visit.

~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale rapped lightly on the doorframe, rocking on the balls of his feet in nervous agitation. No answer was forthcoming from within the flat.

“Are you in old boy?” he called out sticking his head in the door.

“G’way,” came a muffled groan from the vicinity of the couch.

Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. Crowley was here, thank goodness for that, his imagination had begun to run wild. The response he had gotten was not quite as reassuring as it should have been though, and the sight of one of the house plants slouching didn’t help matters. If the poor thing felt safe enough to slump like that then Crowley must be a pitiful sight indeed.

“Are you quite all right, dear?” he asked stepping around the couch to get a look at his paramour.

Crowley was curled up under what must have been every blanket he owned (and several he likely didn’t) looking for all the world like he wanted nothing more than to cease existing on the physical plane. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare for a moment because, bless, he looked so pathetic and undemonic wrapped up like that, the poor dear.

Crowley gave his best glare, which at present didn’t amount to much, as Aziraphale moved to sit on the arm of the couch. “You didn’t show up for lunch,” he explained, “I was worried you’d been called back.”

He ran a hand absently through sweat damp hair and let out a faint huff of laughter as Crowley hummed appreciatively. “Not been feeling so well, s’all.”

“Well can’t you just-?” he made a fluttering hand gesture.

“Don’t you think if I could just-“ Crowley mimicked the hand flutter, “I would have done it ages ago? I tried miracling it away but as you can see that made no bloody difference,” he let out an aggravated hiss, annoyed at the present infirmity of his corporeal form.

“Well,” the angel said, rising smoothly off the sofa, “I’ll just have to stick around until you’re put to rights then. Chamomile or peppermint my dear?” he asked, heading for the quite modern and hardly used kitchen.

Crowley let out a long-suffering sigh to cover the fact that he was secretly glad his angel would be sticking around, he felt quite rubbish. He pondered the question of tea for a moment, gauging the uncomfortable knot his stomach had tied itself into several hours ago, before deciding that peppermint would likely be best.

Aziraphale came back a few moments later with a mug of peppermint for Crowley and some milky earl grey for himself. He sat the tea on the coffee table before moving to help Crowley into a more upright position which the demon resented. He could drink tea while lying down. He was sure of it. As he cradled the tea in his hands, drawing in the delightful warmth, he became aware that his change in position was not going over well with his stomach. He sipped tentatively at his tea, hoping that the mint would settle any problems that had arisen. It was swiftly apparent that while tea solved a great many issues this was not to be one of them.

He tried another sip with vague hope and- No. Definitely not helping.

Aziraphale seemed to have become aware of his mounting distress, not surprising given the pale pinched look that had come over his face as he swallowed compulsively.

“Are you quite alright, dear?” He asked worriedly, setting his tea aside in favour of putting a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley swallowed a mouthful of saliva, deciding that it would likely not be wise to open his mouth at this juncture and settled for a faint shake of his head. He set his tea down with shaking hands and then curled up as carefully as he could in an attempt to placate his churning stomach.

Aziraphale seemed to have finally caught on to the cause for his distress and quickly stood, nervously fidgeting about and clearly at a momentary loss. It was understandable; it wasn’t as if they took ill, well, ever. Another moments fretting about and he seemed to have figured it out.

“I don’t suppose you could walk a bit could you?” he asked hopefully.

Crowley let out a pitiful groan (he would never admit to making such a noise, and anyone who disagreed with him could go hang) that sounded vaguely as though it could have been an affirmative and a burp that did not bode well at all. Aziraphale pulled him slowly up and allowed Crowley to lean most of his weight on him for the mercifully short shuffle to the bathroom.

Being completely vertical however was agreeing with him even more poorly than sitting up had and without any warning he suddenly found himself bent double and vomiting copiously onto the floor. Aziraphale made to jerk back but thankfully kept his hold firm, he was not so cruel as to let Crowley end up kneeling in his own sick no matter how disgusted he was.

There was a brief pause then, Aziraphale really wasn’t up for dealing with this kind of thing, before they started moving again with more purpose now. Crowley managed to make it just in time to collapse in front of the toilet before the contents of his stomach came surging up. He gripped the porcelain like if his life depended on it as he threw up again, body tensing like a coiled spring and vomit pouring out in a violent torrent. He could hear Aziraphale retching behind him which really wasn’t helping matters.

The angel pressed a hand over his mouth and had to back out of the bathroom for a moment as Crowley continued to heave harshly. He took several deep breaths and darted back to the living room for a quick sip of Crowley’s tea. It did him a lot more good than it had done the demon, and after another deep fortifying breath he was ready to go back.

Crowley had slumped from the ridged position he had previously been stationed in and was now leaned forward resting casually over the toilet, head lolling on his arm as vomit continued to periodically gush from his lips in haphazard spills. He’d gotten sick on his shirt, not entirely surprising considering how violently he had been throwing up a moment ago. Aziraphale took a tentative step back in.

The smell of it hit him straight on and he couldn’t help the immediate reflex to gag. He was not going to be sick, he told himself firmly, he was a celestial being and as such he was not going to be sick. Crowley was the one feeling poorly and he was damn well going to do his best to help, so his stomach could stop twisting about, thank you very kindly. He edged a bit further in before deciding to just go for it and sinking down to the floor with Crowley. He began running a hand through the demon’s hair again, a gesture he knew was always appreciated, while simultaneously trying to stay back a bit.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be there, it really wasn’t, he was always willing to be there for his long-time friend, it was just that he had never been all that good at dealing with sick people. He had a habit of going off to Tibet when any epidemic level illness popped up and not making his way back to civilization until Crowley came to fetch him. He really was quite rubbish at this sort of thing he thought with a sigh, cautiously getting an arm around Crowley who looked as though he wasn’t going to be conscious much longer.

The smell of sick was still getting to him a bit but he was fairly certain he had it under control now. The wet burps and occasional splashes of vomit were tuning his stomach considerably though. He rested his head against Crowley’s back for a moment focusing on the heat and trying to draw in the scent of expensive laundry detergent and not the pervading stench of bile. Surely there couldn’t be much left in his stomach. He’d be able to get Crowley settled in bed and then it would over hopefully. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to cope if this lasted any longer than today.

They sat like that for another few minutes until Crowley seemed a bit more cognizant and in control of himself. It had been a good twenty minutes since he had last brought anything up and even then it had only been a trickle of bile. All things considered he was actually feeling much better. Well, that might have been a bit of an overstatement, he still felt like death warmed over, but that was preferable to feeling like he was about to decorporealise. He began to sit up a bit when he noticed the warmth leaned against him, it took him a moment to realise it was Aziraphale.

He moved away from the toilet a bit and flushed the mess away, Aziraphale getting slowly up while he did so. It was as the angel was helping him up that he noticed something was off. Aziraphale was looking about as well as he’d felt a moment ago. He began pushing him from the bathroom determined to get them both lying down. As they passed the mess in the living room he turned to look apologetically at his angel. 

“I don’t suppose you could take care of that? I’d do it myself but I don’t think I’ve got enough in me for a miracle right now,” he rasped, throat almost as sore as his muscles.

Aziraphale twitched his hand a bit and the floor was clean, though he still looked decidedly unwell.

“Thanks. Come on, let’s go lay down. I’m knackered,” Crowley sighed with feeling.

“What the he-Manchester caused all that then my dear?” the angel asked, still a bit worried.

Crowley gave an expressive shrug, “Buggered if I know.”

Crowley stripped off his unpleasantly stained shirt as he stepped into the bedroom. He’d have to burn it. There was no other option. After a moment’s consideration he proceeded to strip completely before falling face-first onto the bed with a satisfied sigh. “Come on angel, hop in,” he said, muffled by the mattress. “I’m still not feeling up to snuff and I really wouldn’t complain if you did that thing with my hair.”

Aziraphale settled onto the bed behind him pressing his face to the back of Crowley’s neck while a hand crept up to message the demon’s scalp.

Crowley let out a pleased hiss as the last of the tension drained out of him. “Thanks by the way,” he commented off-handedly, “I know sick people aren’t really your thing.” An understatement if he’d ever seen one.

“Not at all my dear, any time,” he said pleasantly, “Though… Do try to avoid having it happen again?” he asked wincing. His stomach was still decidedly unsettled.

“I’ll do my best,” he laughed, pressing back into his angel. He wasn’t cuddling. That’s not what this was, and no one could say otherwise.

Crowley lay for a while drifting in and out of sleep, Aziraphale’s hand had stilled some time ago and soft snores could be made out above the sound of the central cooling system. He smiled faintly, yellow eyes slipping shut again. He was eternally grateful that he and the angel had their Arrangement, he wasn’t certain what he would do without his other half.

As he drifted off to sleep properly, body exhausted and completely wrung out, he spared a thought to hope that whatever it had been wasn’t contagious. For all that Aziraphale was rubbish at dealing with other people when they were ill it wasn’t a patch on how badly he reacted when he was the sick one.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll probably be doing a companion piece to this with things reversed. So mostly in Crowley’s POV with Aziraphale being the one sick.


End file.
